Translation of Love

50

"But you haven't."

I shake my head.

We sit in silence for a bit again before he changes topics.

"Did your mother ever tell you how I met your grandma?"

I shake my head and look at my grandfather. He smiles solemnly.

"At age 20 I had moved away from home, wanting to be independent. But it was hard to find a job in Portugal at that time. So I found a job for the summer working on a farm in Ireland. I could not speak English and was illiterate, but it didn't matter. They only needed my body to do the physical labour. When I arrived I saw your grandma. She was one of the daughters of the man I worked for. Her bright red hair caught my eye in an instant. Against the too-green grass that covered the land, she stood out like a fire."

His smile grows wider as his eyes seem to be carried off into the past.

"I was always curious about her when I worked, but I didn't know how to talk to her. I only knew work words, like 'dig,' 'plant,' 'horse.' But one night I worked very late and headed back to my room in the barn in the dark. She came out of nowhere with a lantern to help guide me. We didn't say a word to each other, but I felt like I was burning up just being next to her. I ended up purposely working late every day since, and every day like clock-work she would join me to walk me back."

I smile as I imagine my grandma, my fierce stubborn grandma, silenced by this dirt-covered farm boy who couldn't even talk to her.

"After a few weeks of this, she finally spoke to me. I had secretly been reading English books in my room at night. I never knew what I was reading, but I had picked up a few words. Of course, it wasn't enough to communicate well. So the next night she was carrying a book in her free hand and she read to me in English in secret after I was done work. Eventually, as she grew more comfortable around me, she taught me how to write. Her family didn't know about this as it went on for two whole months. Eventually, I ended up asking to stay longer, past the summer. Because I was such a hard worker, her father agreed. So I ended up working in the day and spending my evenings with your grandma. Until her parents found out. Then I was forced to go back to Portugal."

He still smiles as he says this, but his eyes squint, crows feet now showing.

"By then it had been eight months, and her helping me every night ended up not only fostering my English literacy skills, but also our love for each other. I would write her letters in English from Portugal each week. At first, she responded, but after two months the letters disappeared. So I got the courage to go back to Ireland and find her. Looking back, I don't know where I got the bravery from. I found her secretly and asked her to marry me. She agreed, telling me that she responded to every letter."

"How did you marry without her parents knowing?"

"Oh, they knew. They weren't happy about it, neither were my parents. My parents wanted me to marry a daughter of their friends. But I was so in love, there was nothing else in this world I wanted. So we got married without anyone knowing in a small Irish church. Then we confronted her parents out of respect, told them what we had done and that we were moving to Canada. Canada was like an escape for us. And that's what we did. We got on a boat together, newlyweds with no family to support us. We started in Ontario but were intrigued by the mountains and eventually moved to Vancouver. Then we had your aunt and mother."

He smiles warmly at me, his brown eyes twinkling again.

"So that's why your accent is so weird," I tell him. He chuckles at this.

"It's kind of Irish but also not." I laugh with him, feeling strangely comforted by his story. My grandfather was always a poetic, kindhearted man. He used to write my grandmother poetry and letters. I remember being a little girl and sitting beside him, watching him write in his intricate script and trying to read his symbolic words.

All this time I thought my grandmother was the opposite of my grandfather. Just as fiery as her hair, sometimes even rude and much too strict. But turns out she was a lovesick girl deep down inside.

"You have your mother's eyes, querida." He places his tanned hand on my pale one, warming it up with his wise touch.

"And mom had your eyes, vovô," I say back. He pats my hand with a smile.

"One thing I regret is your mother coming back home."

My smile falls from his next words.

"Why?"

"While I was glad to have her back, she ended up forcing herself to stop loving someone she really cared about. And she was never able to get over it. I wish I had convinced her to go back, but I was selfish."

"It's not your fault."

"I know, I just hope she forgave herself before she left us."

He smiles down at me solemnly.

I nod my head, "Me too."

. . .

Avô/vovô - Portuguese for grandfather.

Menina - Portuguese for "girl" [often used as a noun for endearment, like "child"]

Querida - Portuguese for "Dear, Sweetheart" etc.

A/N:

I kinda love this chapter. I love the story of her grandma and grandpa, and it seems so real too, like that really did happen to two people way back then. If you're wondering, I myself am Portuguese and wanted to incorporate my background in here somehow. (ps. please don't comment in Portuguese lol I'm not literate in Portuguese and only somewhat understand Azorian Portuguese (where both sides of my family are from))

xx sooaura